Cradles and Coffins
by MahoganEffie
Summary: "I love you," I whisper, the honesty painfully raw. She needs to know that I still care, that I've forgiven her, and that she can forgive herself.


**Title: Cradles and Coffins.**

**Summary: "I love you," I whisper, the honesty painfully raw. She needs to know that I still care, that I've forgiven her, and that she can forgive herself.**

**Timeline: About six years after Endgame.**

**Pairing: C/7**

**Rating: T**

**Author's Note: Hey all! Be warned, this story is quite a sad one, and although I've dealt with death before in a story, this has been the hardest to write. I hope I've done it delicately enough as not to offend or upset people. I also switch from Chakotay's POV, to an outsider's, and then back to his again, so to avoid confusion, I'll put up little markers saying what's what.**

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><p><strong>Chakotay POV<strong>

They say that a mist of depression glazes eerily over the world in the hour that twilight turns to night. It starts when the golden oranges of sunset turn into murky purples, and ends when the sky is as dark as, well, night. It is the one time when our own world intermingles with theirs, and whilst they receive a slice of our light, we gain a sliver of their despair.

I would look at the colours of calypso, with her in my arms, as I whispered lovingly to her. I would kiss the top of her head, and nuzzle gently into her soft, blonde hair. We'd go inside soon after, when we were satisfied that we'd seen enough of this particular day, and were ready to move on to another, maybe brighter, one.

Ever since the 'incident', though, all I see now in the evening is darkness. What had once been a magical time, the slow, graceful transformation of daytime to night, is now merely the oppression of light, and of happiness itself.

The house is quiet, now, too quiet. Her sweet laughter no longer resonates in the halls, and her belongings are no longer strewn in awkward places. They've been placed in a single room.

_Her _room.

Every night I walk into that room, as if I could bring her back merely by being in there. I sit in the rocking chair, and I stare at the walls. When I'd found out that Seven was pregnant, I'd taken her down to the local home-improvements store, just to pick out a nursery theme. We'd decided on a genderless colour, and so I'd spent the first few days of her pregnancy painting the walls, of what used to be the home office, the sweetest buttercup yellow. The ceiling is painted a tone not harsh enough to be white, but not vibrant enough to call colour. A tiny border at the bottom of the walls depicts tiny bumblebees and butterflies flying between blades of grass; a lime-green changing table takes pride of place beneath the window.

Alexis-Jay Renee Kotay

Her name still adorns a wooden plaque above the head of her crib. It's still _her _crib, although she'll never sleep there again. It's made up perfectly, with its soft blankets, and countless, tiny teddy bears. The musical mobile still hangs stoically, as if it knows that it will never coax her into that blessed world of serene slumber ever again.

She was nearly ready for her first big-girl bed.

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><p><strong>3<strong>**rd**** Person POV**

Five months ago, just a week after her second birthday, Seven had taken her daughter out for an early-morning trip to the park. Alexis-Jay (or AJ, as she was commonly called) had just learned to walk, and was proudly showing everybody her newfound skill. As she stomped around the playground rambunctiously, she spared no thought to her proud mother, who was, by then, talking to the other mothers about the trials and tribulations of potty-training.

"It was a little embarrassing, I'll admit," Seven recounted, "but pretty much everyone found it funny when AJ ran up to Tuvok, raised her dress and showed him her new pair of Pirate Princess panties. Her proud declaration of 'Look 'Oovok, I'm Twained!' made even him laugh."

"Bless her," replied Gracie, one of Seven's 'mom' friends, "I wish Ella was as quick as AJ with picking up on potty-training."

As the two women continued on with their conversation, Ella, Maggie, Jess, and AJ had taken it upon themselves to run off to the children's park. Which would have been okay, had they been children, and not toddlers; usually, the parents were insistent that they either play in the baby park, or have an adult with them in the children's one.

As Ella climbed onto the first step of the Jungle Gym, AJ was already on the third. As the girls got higher and higher, they heard the worried voices of their respective parent calling to them. As if to alleviate her mother's concern, AJ stuck her head and shoulders out from the purple bars of the platform.

"Don't worry, Mama, we're in here!" She yelled. As soon as the words had passed her delicate, baby lips, she lost her footing, and Seven turned around just in time to see her daughter fall from a height of nearly eight foot, to the harsh concrete below.

As if her daughter's piercing scream was not enough to taint the morning air, Seven shouted as loudly as she could for people to '_move out of my damn way'_, so that she could get to where her child lay, unnaturally so, on the floor. Although no blood was visible, Alexis would not respond to Seven's gentle murmurs of comfort. Even when the paramedics got there, the best they could do was coax little admissions of 'it hurts' from the, clearly injured, little girl.

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><p>What had started out bad became worse when Chakotay was informed that his wife and daughter were in hospital. He drove like a crazed maniac to the medical facility, and although he had been told numerous times to 'slow down and walk, sir', he ran hurriedly to the room he'd been told that the rest of his family occupied.<p>

When he finally, breathlessly made his entrance, the look in Seven's eyes said it all.

"She wasn't in any pain, when she… went," started Seven, "They gave her a lot of painkillers, and they did their best. Don't be mad with the doctors, Chakotay, it was my fault. It was entirely my fault."

As he watched his wife break down in tears, Chakotay wasn't even sure he could go to her. Instead, he lowered himself gently on the seat opposite her, the one closest to his daughter.

She looked so peaceful, as she lay in the hospital's child bed. She was broken, yet to Chakotay, she was perfect. Her wispy, honey-coloured hair trailed fluffily down to her shoulders, and her mouth was pursed a little, as though she were about to wake up.

He wanted her to. God knows that he wanted to scoop up his precious little daughter in his arms, and just hold her until she woke up and demanded to be fed mashed potato for breakfast.

"God, Seven, what the hell happened?" It wasn't obvious in his tone, but the unspoken implication that he blamed Seven, even minutely, shattered something between them that could never be replaced.

"I don't know," she said, as if in a daydream, "I was talking to Tallulah and the others about how proud I was of AJ being so easy to potty train. Next thing I knew I was watching her fall from the top of the Jungle Gym."

"Why weren't you watching her?" he asked. Although his voice was not raised, it was not quiet either, and his voice held undertones of desperation and anger, as if he were trying to ask more than a simple question over his daughter's sudden death.

"I was," replied Seven in a pleading voice, tears trickling down her already swollen cheeks, "I really was. I just thought that there was no reason for her to go to the children's park."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said, with regret and hurt as he looked into her eyes properly for the first time since he'd heard the news, "I didn't mean to-"

"But you should," she started, "if I'd just kept a closer eye on her…"

"Who knows what would have happened?" He replied, walking over to pull her into his arms. He could see that the last thing his wife needed was for him to pile the guilt on.

She already blamed herself enough for the both of them.

…

The funeral, as expected, had been a sombre affair. Mourners aplenty, including friends from Voyager, and those that were made recently, joined together in a shared sorrow. Although Alexis-Jay would not have been old enough to remember most of the faces that turned up for her final farewell, they all had precious memories of the happy little baby who had never wanted for a thing.

"Mere words cannot describe how heartbreaking it is to have to walk into our house and it be quiet," Chakotay began his eulogy, "Over these past two years Seven, AJ and I have grown into a family, and to have a piece of that happiness missing is so painful that it's hard to breathe. I'd like to remember her, as I'm sure you all do, as the delightful child she was. She was beautiful, happy, and precocious, as any child of ours would have been. I just hope that, wherever she is now, is a good place, and that the people she's with are good to her."

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><p><strong>Chakotay POV<strong>

They say that a mist of depression glazes eerily over the world in the hour that twilight turns to night. It starts when the golden oranges of sunset turn into murky purples, and ends when the sky is as dark as, well, night. It is the one time when our own world intermingles with theirs, and whilst they receive a slice of our light, we gain a sliver of their despair.

I'd like to think that she doesn't despair. Even though those of us left behind still do. I'd do anything; _give_ anything, to have her back.

To have them _both _back.

Every night as I turn the nursery lights off for the last time, I hear a sigh coming from the room in which Seven and I sleep. Every night, I walk into the room to find her lying with her back to me, hand draped heartbreakingly over whatever item of AJ's she's taken to bed with her. Every night I settle with quiet, gentle movements onto the bed and pretend not to notice that she doesn't relax into me like she used to. When she moves, it's mechanical, and her eyes hold no symmetry to the ones filled with adoration, pride, and completeness.

Every night, I fear that I'll never see that look of sheer joy in her eyes again.

We're damaged, perhaps beyond repair, and we're both to blame.

I was too hard, too unforgiving, that day in the hospital. Although now, in hindsight, I'd always known that Seven would do nothing to harm our daughter, at the time, I was angry. I needed an answer, or at the very least, someone to blame.

She was, and still is, unwilling to move on. She won't set foot in AJ's nursery, and I, even now, sometimes have to remind her to breathe. The grief is there, she just tries not to let it show.

I carefully slide my arm around her waist and draw her closer into my chest. She relaxes a tiny bit into my arms, but other than that, remains still. I'm not surprised, although disappointed I remain. I say the only thing I can think of to say.

"I love you," I whisper, the honesty painfully raw. I won't cry, not in front of her, and my voice is heavy with the weight of unshed tears, and bitter regret. She needs to know that I still care, that I've forgiven her, and that she can forgive herself. More importantly, I _want_ her to know, to be forgiven, and to forgive herself.

"I'm sorry," is the answer I receive. It's barely audible, but it's there.

She's talking; I guess that's a start.


End file.
